


What We Are

by catwalksalone



Category: Sports Night
Genre: Alternate Universe, Comment Fic, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Porn Battle, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-14
Updated: 2007-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:44:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catwalksalone/pseuds/catwalksalone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casey needs to screw his courage to the sticking place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Are

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Courage

Casey knows his skin will blister if the boy (man?) boy at the end of the bar keeps looking at him that way. He can feel it already, hairs rising, skin prickling with anticipation. Hackles, he thinks. A throwback to a primitive time when he could've taken what he wanted  clubbed the guy round the head, dragged him to his cave, fucked him into the hard, stony ground.

He steals a glance; the man (boy?) still stares, hot and open, gaze running down from Casey's face to where his long fingers clasp his glass. Casey's thumb rubs over the smooth surface, collecting beads of condensation like his armpits and upper lip are collecting beads of sweat. He feels his heartbeat quicken, his breathing become shallow, his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. It's fight-or-flight and Casey's sick of flight. It's why he's here, in this bar full of loud music and louder men. So he won't run, but he doesn't want to fight either. There is a third way.

Casey drains his beer and stands, pulse matching the driving techno beat. It pounds through his body; the tips of his fingers vibrate with it. He sways a little, steadies himself against the bar and turns, meets the stranger's eyes. He begins the walk towards him, the scant distance stretching into miles. Eyes black in the dim light hold his, steady, unguarded. Casey knows he could push his hand through the flesh and bone and blood of this man's chest, rip out his heart and eat it without a murmur of protest.

He stops, terrified of the violent wave of desire breaking over him. But the stranger tips his head, parts his lips and with slow deliberation drags his tongue across the space in between. Casey is caught: a fish on a line. He screws his courage to the sticking place (or sticks it to the place he wants to screw) and lets himself be reeled in, moving forward, inexorable, until he is inches away.

Up close he sees more than a boy, less than a man: in-between, but without the uncertainty that marked Casey's own transition to adulthood. This dark-haired, pale-skinned, _creature_ is confident, ageless and Casey wants to fall to his knees before him, declare his undying _something_, beg to be touched, to be allowed to touch. Instead he sticks out his hand. The stranger shakes his head, rises and heads for the exit, not once looking back. Casey follows.

A dark alley, filled with muffled noise. They are not alone. Casey doesn't care because the boy's mouth is on his, but no sooner has Casey opened to it then it slides away and nuzzles the hollow behind Casey's earlobe, tongue tracing tiny circles. Casey drags in a sharp breath, cool air across burning lips. He's getting hard and wants to press against solid flesh, wants to connect but he doesn't quite know what the etiquette is here, so his hands hang limp by his sides and his body keeps its distance. Then the boy slips two fingers into Casey's mouth and he is undone.

He slams his hips forward and grabs the stranger by the hair and by the wrist, pulling his head back so that he is watching Casey fuck his fingers with his mouth. Casey controls the movement, sliding them in and out slow and easy, tongue gliding along their length, lingering against the groove of skin at their base. He runs his teeth over the fleshy pads, licks around the nail beds. The boy groans, voice deeper than Casey expects. It pulls at Casey. _Closer_. He pushes the boy's wrist down and crashes their mouths together. There's fumbling and reaching and slick, warm fingers around him and his own fingers curving around hard flesh and they stroke a fierce rhythm, panting into each other, spare hands clutching whatever they can find, restless explorers.

Casey's been waiting his whole life for this. He is drunk on it, higher than he's ever been. He's at a loss but he knows everything, _everything_ that matters. The boy pulls back, meets Casey's eyes and smiles. He smiles and twists his hand and Casey feels his skin crack and peel and he erupts. Two strokes and the boy is with him, thick liquid threading between Casey's fingers.

They separate; Casey tidies himself, wipes his hand on his jeans and sticks it out.

"Casey," he says.

The boy licks at his fingers, languid, daring. He takes Casey's hand with his damp one.

"Dan," he says. "I like your shirt."


End file.
